Of Herbs and Small Bunnies
by Eildon Rhymer
Summary: "Tegoldir was saving the kingdoms of Men, when a tiny example of those people appeared at his elbow, sucking on a honeycomb." An assistant junior librarian of Rivendell, already sore beset by the classification challenges posed by Men, struggles to find stories that will entertain very small Heirs of Isildur over the years.


**Of Herbs and Small Bunnies**

 _"Tegoldir was saving the kingdoms of Men, when a tiny example of those people appeared at his elbow, sucking on a honeycomb." A junior assistant librarian of Rivendell, already sore beset by the classification challenges posed by Men, struggles to find stories that will entertain very small Heirs of Isildur over the years._

This was written for Back to Middle Earth Month 2015, and was posted on LJ back in March. It was written for a prompt calling for fan works inspired by the books in Rivendell's library.

Readers expecting my usual sort of story will not find it here. This one is distinctly in the genre of Humour.

* * *

Tegoldir was saving the kingdoms of Men, when a tiny example of those people appeared at his elbow, sucking on a honeycomb.

"What are you doing?" the sticky boy asked.

Tegoldir hurried the books and scrolls away from the range of dripping honey. "Saving the northern kingdoms," he explained.

The small boy nodded. "My grandfather tried to do that. He drowned."

"Ah. That." Tegoldir nudged the books another cautious inch. "But _I_ am saving it from…" His voice grew ringing. "…the evils of poor classification!"

The boy was busy licking his left hand clean, one finger at a time. Tegoldir thought that he might be two, or maybe eight; it was hard to tell with the children of Men.

"Classification," Tegoldir explained, "is the art of arranging books in order, to ensure that the knowledge therein can be found by those who seek it, both now and in the ages of come. Many works were brought here from Fornost in haste, and were put on our shelves without proper thought. Some were damaged during the journey." He gestured at a heavy tome, its spine half detached and its covers stained with swamp water and blood. "I choose a few of the worst offenders, and brought them outside to clean and repair on this lovely day, along some other works that have been damaged by careless use. Then I realised…"

The boy transferred the honeycomb to his clean left hand, and began to lick the right. Tegoldir wondered if he should point out the futility of this act, but perhaps it was one of those apparently nonsensical things that Men did: nonsensical things which had somehow won them great kingdoms.

"I realised," he continued, "how inadequate our classification system has become, now that we have acquired so many rescued works from the archives of Arthedain. We had just three numbers for the kingdoms of Men in the Third Age! Imagine that! Entirely appropriate if all we had was four books, but now that we have so many, it is a travesty!"

A robin landed on the balcony railings, and shouted out a defiant song, claiming the balcony as its territory for ever more. The boy offered the robin his honeycomb. It flew away, unimpressed.

"We have eight different numbers for comic songs of the fifth century," Tegoldir explained, "and three for the evolution of the tra-la-la songs alone." It was important, he thought, that the boy understood the sheer magnitude of the horror he had uncovered in the stacks.

"I'm Arahael," the boy said suddenly. "I'm visiting with my mama. I'm three."

" _Are_ you? How exciting!" Tegoldir said, suddenly remembering that someone had told him once that this was how one was supposed to speak to children. "I am Tegoldir, assistant junior librarian." And this boy, he realised, must be the son of the Heir of Isildur, the Chieftain of the Númenorians in exile.

"I can read," Arahael declared. He stepped forward and pointed at an open book. Tegoldir sat poised ready to snatch it away from sticky fingers, but Heirs of Isildur were clearly taught all the most important lessons from birth, such as the proper way to handle books. The finger was respectful and kept its distance. "Those," the boy declared, "are _words_."

"And what do the words say?" Tegoldir asked indulgently.

"I don't know _that_!" Arahael declared. "I'm _three_! You have to tell me a story." He settled down on the floor, crossing his legs, and looking up at Tegoldir expectantly. "Then I'll be reading."

"But…" Tegoldir began, then decided not to argue. Presumably this, like the finger-licking, was one of those things that made perfect sense to Men. What could he read to the boy? There were three books and four scrolls on the table, some from Fornost and some from Rivendell. What about…? No, that one started with the death of one of this boy's forefathers. That one…? No, definitely no! That one…? It was inoffensive, but although Tegoldir knew little about the children of Men, he knew that a three year-old boy would be unlikely to find a dry treatise on herb-lore interesting, even one written by the great Lasseth herself.

"What kind of story would you like me to tell you?" he asked.

"Something about a kitten," Arahael said without hesitation. "A kitten with _wings_. And a sword," he added, after a moment's of frowning consideration.

There was nothing for Teholdir to do but shake his head. "Then I have no stories that you will like."

With a disappointed sigh, Tegoldir stood up, and began to walk away. "I know what you should do," he said, throwing the words over his shoulder without turning round. "Classify them by colour. It's _obvious_."

* * *

"Will Master Elrond _often_ be inviting tiny Heirs of Isildur to visit?" Tegoldir asked some time that summer.

It was entirely likely, he was told. More, it was quite probable that they would be invited to live with Master Elrond for all the years of their childhood: a fleeting time in the ages of the world, but an all-too-long time when importunate boys with sticky fingers might come to you clamouring for stories.

Tegoldir surveyed the tables full of unsorted books and rolls. He could sort them by date, but some spanned the Ages. He had tried classifying them by place, but what, then, could be done with a certain Cennan's treatise on the contrasting development of earthenware drinking vessels in Gondor (prone to patterned handles) and Arnor (more fond of solid bases)? By theme? But some discursive authors covered both swordcraft _and_ song in the same work.

"Ah," he said. "In that case, our library requires more books that will interest young children of Men. It is important," he explained, "to foster a love of literature in the young. An Heir of Isildur must be a master of lore. How will that come to pass if at the age of three, he is taught that reading is nothing but a dull chore?"

"We have some such b-" they began to tell him.

"So I will write such a book," Tegoldir declared. An illustrated treatise on the beards of Annúminas gently slid from the mountain of scrolls. Tegoldir caught it, and placed it on the pile that had the working title of 'unsure. Will decide later.'

"But…" they told him.

"Indeed so," he agreed. "I know little about the children of Men and the stories that they like to tell, so I will embark upon a Journey."

He left then. He was almost running.

* * *

His journey was long, and would sadly remain unwritten. He started to write an account of it, imagining that it would be classified under _The Men of Arnor-As-Was: the culture and folklore thereof_. Then, several months into the writing, he wondered if it would work better as _Wanderers of the Third Age: travel diaries._ Crouched in ruins and hunched behind hedges, he reworded his notes to suit the new classification. Then he lost entire manuscript in a bog, and gave up.

He remembered what he saw, though. He overheard mothers telling tales to their children. He overheard boys scaring each other in the dark. In a sad, desperate village, he heard an old woman inspire joy and laughter in a group of orphans, as she taught them the rudiments of letters. He listened to babies calling for more stories, more stories, more!

He almost returned home then, but turned the other way instead. He spent three hundred years at the Grey Havens, where all the books had friendly, ordered classifications, and stayed in their appointed places without arguments. Then he visited a few more settlements of Men on his slow road home, and meandered south and north and west a bit, always collecting tales.

At length, five hundred years after he had departed, he returned to Rivendell with a full and proper understanding of the sort of stories that young children of Men enjoyed.

Somebody else had classified the kingdoms of Men in his absence. He let out a breath, and marvelled at how bright and sunny Rivendell looked after so long away. They had chosen to classify by kingdom and then by date, with general works classified by theme. The beards of Annúminas were on the top shelf, classed as accoutrements of war. It was a flawed system, in need of much refinement, but Tegoldir closed the door to that room quite firmly behind him, and resolved not to enter it again.

* * *

Tegoldir was repairing a book of the recipes of Men, when a tiny example of those people appeared at his elbow, wiping his fingers clean on his tunic.

"Hail and well met," said the boy, but there was an element of doubt in his voice, as if he had overheard this greeting, but was unsure whether this was the correct place for it. "My name is Estel. I've come here for a-"

"A story!" Tegoldir laid down his needle and carefully stoppered the gum. "I have stories for you! Come in! Come in!"

The boy followed him obediently. Tegoldir would have thought him around three years old, or maybe seven, had he not known that "Estel" was the newest Heir of Isildur. He was four years old, and had lived in Rivendell almost since his birth. He was ignorant of his true name, and had to remain so.

"I have stories! Sit down! Make yourself comfortable!" He collected together a pile of cushions, then went to his Special Chest and brought out the sewn stuffed animal, like the ones he had seen clutched in the hands of small children during his travels. He tossed it at the boy, paused a moment to see if he would love it, then carried on. "Now, which one shall I read…?"

For almost five hundred years, he had waited for one of the Heirs of Isildur to come to him and ask him for a story. Many of them read widely, of course, but Tegoldir was only an assistant junior librarian, and when it came to making lore-masters out of the heirs of kings, the great ones made it their responsibility.

"Can you read?" he asked. "I have books to help you read: books written in the tongue of Men, with words that Men can comprehend. 'A is for Armour, B is for Beard, C is for Clemency… but that picture needs work. But, no," he said, "you want me to read you story. I have just the one for you. It is called _Bunnykins' Big Adventure: a tale for very young Men,_ and it is written by me, Tegoldir. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I will begin."

The boy opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. He seemed a polite little fellow.

"Once upon a time," Tegoldir said, because that was how the stories of Men always seemed to start, "there was a tiny little bunny rabbit. It was _so_ sweet. Look! There it is!" He pointed to the scrawled picture, and made sure that his tone of voice conveyed that the bunny rabbit was the most exciting thing in the whole of Middle Earth. "What noise does a bunny rabbit make?" he said. Animal noises were always popular, or so he had observed. "Can you…" He began to feel the cold prickle of creeping doubt. _Can you bark like a…? Can you bleat like a… Can you mew like a…_ "…like a rabbit?" he said. " _I_ can," he declared, and turned the page quickly.

"I…" the boy began, then fell silent again. He was clearly rapt.

"The bunny rabbit was called Bunnykins," Tegoldir said. "Her favourite thing in all the world was jumping. Do you like jumping? Why not get up and jump like a bunny rabbit (but carefully, so as not to scatter the archives)?"

The boy half-raised his hand, then lowered it. He was clearly very shy.

"Don't be shy!" Tegoldir urged him. "Look! _I_ can jump like a bunny rabbit!" He jumped up and down. "Boing!" he said, because silly noises often featured in stories told to very tiny Men. "Boing!" Another jump. "Boing!"

The boy jumped on the spot, making himself a few inches taller, then settling down again, all without leaving the piled cushions.

"Boing!" Tegoldir said. He appeared to be unable to stop. _I marched with Gil-Galad!_ he thought. Well, he could have marched with Gil-Galad, had he not been engaged in a detangling a hideous knot of confusion caused by careless cataloguing in the weaponry section. "Boing!" he said. He slipped on landing, and flung out an arm. A lantern smashed to the floor, glass shattering. "Naked flame! Naked flame!" Tegoldir leapt onto it, trampling out the fire before it could take hold. "Boing," he added afterwards, to explain his jump.

"Um…" said the boy, and he was not rapt at all, Tegoldir realised, merely polite. "I…"

"What do I need to do to excite your interest in books?" Tegoldir demanded. "Do you want to _make_ something? We can make a bunny rabbit from gum and pulped paper. Or are you one of _those_ boys: one of those older boys I saw, who thought that all stories had to include copious references to the exhalation of malodorous air from the digestive tract. It is a thing that Men do," he explained. "It is considered funny. I do not know why."

"I…" The boy stood up. "I came here for a book," he said. "A Treatise on the Herbs of the North and Their Associated Lore, by the great Lasseth herself. It sounds _wonderful._ "

"Oh," Tegoldir said. He fought the destructive urge to say "boing" again.

"I have found a poorly rabbit," the boy explained earnestly, almost apologetically. "Master Elrond says he will help me heal it, but I want to identify the herbs we need _all by myself_."

Tegoldir gathered together the tattered shreds of his dignity, and went for the book. Estel took it with the proper thanks, and turned to leave.

"And rabbits _do_ make a noise," he added, pausing to turn round. "They go…" He made the noise perfectly, although Tegoldir knew even as he heard it that he would be unable to replicate it himself. Perhaps this was just one of those skills that came easily to the heirs of the Kings of Men, important to their destiny in ways that Tegoldir would never know.

"Boing," he whispered sadly, after the boy had gone. Then, with a sigh, he turned to the closed door, and decided to bury himself for ever more in perfecting the classification of the kingdoms of Men.

It was easier than talking to them.

* * *

 **Note** : I am SO tempted to produce a few pages of "Beards of Annúminas." Is it a learned treatise? An I-Spy type book (anyone remember those?) in which you check off each beard as you find it, and earn points? Sadly, I fear that it is so much better in my imagination than it would be in any reality I could produce. (Stylish Beards are not my artistic forte.) If anyone should feel up to the challenge, I will love them forever more!

Tegoldir, by the way, spent the next eighty-plus years struggling to produce the ultimate classification system that would encompass not just the world of Men, but All Knowledge. But despite the unfortunate Incident of the Boings, he never entirely gave up the dream of one day inspiring a young child of Men to a lifelong love of reading.

One day, emerging from the library, he bumped into a pair of young hobbits called Merry and Pippin, who were celebrating because their friend, Frodo, had just awakened from a terrible illness. Tentatively, Tegoldir offered to read them his Bunnykins tale. Although, as they said, they were fully of age ("or as good as") they proceeded to reminisce quite happily about childhood stories and Rabbits They Had Known, and quite happily joined in with the merry boinging.

The investigation afterwards attributed it to the fact that the hobbits had been drinking from wine glasses considerably larger than they were used to, and had failed moderate their celebratory drinking according. Fortunately, nineteen of the destroyed scrolls were duplicated elsewhere in the library, and the twentieth was a piece of ephemera that had no place in the archives at all.


End file.
